Burgau

For a short period, I am now living in the British enclave of Burgau on the south coast, where I'm allowed to look after Lars' apartment whilst he's in the Netherlands for some days. It takes me two attempts and nights, respectively, to find the hidden keys but then I'm in. Washing machine, shower, internet, and infinitely available electricity take me some time to adjust to. On my first night I feel a bit of both lost and claustrophobic between the walls of this spacious two story flat. So I decide to pay the bar below a visit for a beer and to mingle with the locals. I am the only guest.

So I sit down at a table and join the landlady watching an American action movie with Portuguese subtitles. Soon, two middle-aged couples come in. They seem to know the landlord and talk to him in a language that uses English vocabulary but to me has an unmistakable element of a Slavic tongue. They turn out to be very warmhearted people from Scotland. I finish my beer and join them at the bar, where the landlord now explains an interesting game of dice. The goal is simple, who scores the lowest pays a round of shots. Although I explain that the remaining coins in my wallet would hardly be sufficient to do so, I'm asked to join. The shaker goes around and as it's my turn, beginner's luck is on my side and I throw the necessary pips to keep the wallet in my pocket. Relief. Eventually, the lady next to me has the honor to choose the drinks. This is how I meet my old acqaintance Medronho, a local distillate from the fruit of strawberry trees. And surprinsingly, the four shots only cost 2,40 EUR which explains why money has never really been a prerequisite to join the game in the first place.

The next day, one of the rare south swells providing clean surf on my door step has arrived. I choose working over surfing during the day and only at sunset I get into the sea. It would not have been the same had I done it the other way round. This way, all duties for the day have been carried out and there is nothing distracting me from the glassy walls casting their shadow over me as they are approaching in the last light of day.

It should be my last surf for the next few days. One morning I wake up feeling dizzy and cold and as the day goes on, my body cranks up the thermostat and transmutes my ever-present appetite into a faraway illusion. At least this means going easy on the resources. Luckily, Djinga makes me go outside three times a day, where I discover almond trees sprouting and the sweet scent of their white and pink blossoms waking every butterfly in my tummy. The humming bees in the hedges and the chirping sparrows on the surrounding roof tops leave no doubt that spring is approaching the south of Portugal.

Sagres - The End of the Road

This is already two weeks ago. Here we are now on a cliff above the beach of Tonel. It's a bit windy but hey, we're literally at the edge of the landmass we call Europe. The lighthouse of Cabo de Sao Vicente points to nothing but four coninents. It's moderately warm so that I'm sitting here barefoot in my jumper, sand between my toes. Djinga snuggled up on her black blanket in the passenger seat. Her head resting on the armrest, she's snorring a little.

The day has been an awesome one. Waking up at the hippie beach of Barranco and having some bread with honey for breakfast, I continued my reading about Darwin and his research cruise that turned into a five year sail around the globe. He must have been one of the first to discover sealife fossils in the high altitudes of South America. Back in the late 19th century, people apparently still widely believed that a supernatural being named God created every single individual - plants, animals and humans. Just as technicians and researchers nowadays develop machines and processes. Each in a different way but with a specific purpose. And if it proofed to not succeed properly in the beginning, than refine it a bit to make it more successful in what Darwin called "the struggle for life".

The forecast which was more of a rumor than the latest update from the internet said there was a four meter swell with a 20 second period approaching in the early morning. Some of the guys had already left the spot since it was clear the small bay would not hold these waves. I sent a message to Luuk, holding my old but strong Nokia against the roof of the van and after three unsuccessful attempts it was finally sent. We met at Burgau and figured out what to do. And this is where modelling meets reality. You're standing on the balcony looking at the sea. Not much going on there. Double-checking with a glimpse at the screen displaying the forecast, making sure it's up to date. All you conclude is that there's quite a bit of a discrepancy.

Eventually we headed to an exposed beach at the South coast. Full tide, reasonable wind-chop. But a funny crowd of seven hooting each other into every North Sea like lump that came in. We thought at least three times about leaving but eventually stayed for no less than three hours playing in the sea. It's something I rediscovered after being so focussed on progressing lately. Funny enough, during many sessions earlier I would just fall off my board during the take-off. No matter how easy the wave seemed to be. A lot of surfing seems to happen inbetween the ears. If your mindset is strange, strange things without any logics seem to manifest in the surf. We were kooking the hell out of this session. Later our friends were asking how it was and we could only reply that the surf was less than average but that we such great fun nonetheless!

At night we all met for dinner at a small local place. Grilled fish from the charcoal barbecue with seasalt grains on the crusty skin, salad with tomatoes and olive oil. The funny vinegar in a spray bottle. Fresh bread and olives. Red wine and laughter. Happy days.

Lisbon

I told my friend Sara to meet me at the Airport, arrivals terminal, 1 pm. First of all she lives nearby and, perhaps more importantly, I would be able to find it. I slowly drove past all the people waiting at the bus stop and getting on and off their taxis, mainly looking for a loop in which I could circulate until Sara's red Piaggio Porter mini van would finally show up. But already after my first round I spotted it and took a shortcut back into the circuit, where now the two of us were going around once more before I set the hazard lights somewhere in the still water and we got to say hello. Bacalhau for lunch and a bit of a meaningless conversation with this dude, whose life motto seemed to be printed on his sweater saying VODKA - Connecting People were my very first impressions in the neighbourhood. Oh and Sara's spaniel Maori, who absolutely unteachably tried to tup Djinga again and again and again. He's so obsessed, that later he'd give it to his pillow on the balcony three times in a row straight up.

In the beginning I thought we'd hit the city for it was Saturday night but instead, we took it really easy and just made popcorn, watched Searching for Sugarman and later, when Hugo came around we had a bit of a food fight in the kitchen before dinner was ready. It was such a nice evening. We drank ridiculously good red wine and talked about whether one should be afraid or not of what happens to guys like us when we grow older. We broke it down to the more general question whether one should be afraid (of the future) at all. This took us into the early Sunday morning when we went to bed at about 5 am. And honestly, there's nothing I'd have wanted to do instead and even if I was very tired for the next 300 or so kilometres and probably missed some sick surf along the way to the Algarve, I feel so much richer with this experience than with what vague expectations or assumptions had to offer beforehand.

Heading South

Windows down, sunnies on and the Fruitbats playing from my mp3, which is connected through a cassette adapter to the car radio - this is how we left Nazaré. Sailing into new adventures and eventually going further south. Later that night, when we arrived at Peniche, we would for the first time on this trip meet what I call the beach tribes. A bunch of campervans of all sizes and designs from everywhere across Europe and beyond, some of them camping there right behind the dunes for no less than five months already. I lit my first campfire to celebrate that encounter and soon the two boys from the motorhome next door joined and we exchanged stories about our trips. They caught sick waves in Scottland last year, then went to Ireland and after that chose pretty much the same route as I did and as the beach tribes naturally do. As usual, I was just a bit late which is why I had to get that far to actually meet them. Supertubos was firing these days and I scored without getting wet by taking some good shots in the morning light. As soon as I feel like I really should do something just not to miss out, I have learned to give myself a pat on the back and say "no need to do anything at all my friend, just do as you feel".

As wind and swell droppped, it seemed more than natural to check the exposed area around Ericeira offering reefs and points. But to be honest, I actually had a score to settle with Coxos. I'd been there once or twice before but never got to surf the point itself. This time I would. Friday early afternoon, when I felt the tide should be low enough for the sets to start breaking at the outside, I found myself in the sea with only one other person. We were having a good chat and taking turns. Only at exactly 14:30 at least ten people with boards started their pilgrimage down the cliff and I felt it was time to make a move. Weekend, sunshine, turquoise waves and bathing belles.

It's funny how quickly and intensively the weather changes the setting of a spot. Overnight the wind had changed and clouds stretched their grey blanket over the sea. Only a few cars on the cliff now, and these were not the ones of surfers. Men wedging themselves into wetsuits as thick as seal skin and buckling on weight belts were now dominating the scene, preparing themselves to spend this saturday morning in the spluttering dark of the rocks underwater where they'd lie in wait for unsuspecting prey, holding their breath into dizziness, not moving more than the water around them, the finger on the trigger of the speargun, calm and focused. I spoke to one of them who'd just come back, two substancial specimen at his weight belt. He explained that he needed to stop for today since he got seasick and had to throw up all the time, while his ears were in pain, too. But since he'd stopped smoking a while ago, it has been an amazing experience to be down in that realm again, he said with a smile.

Nazaré

There's a lot more to this traditional fishing village than those giant outbursts of ocean energy, exploding in an impressive 3D-fireworks in front of the cliffs at Praia do Norte. When I woke up at my friend Lourenco's house and stepped out on the balcony, the sun was warming my cheek as I looked over all these rooftops with their red tiles, a smell of incent in the air reminding me of a similar setting in India. The roads were busy for it's market day on wednesdays. Fresh coffee makes my nose drag the rest of my body into one of the little cafes. As I walk along the beach I see men and women washing and peeling the last night's catch. Some of the fish and squid are being spread out on grids to dry in the sun. An intense experience of tasting the sea. Lourenco and I are having lunch together before I'm heading to Peniche and he goes back to work in the industrial plant. A social experiment he calls it during one of our philosophical conversations.

Porto

O Porto - The Harbour. Always makes me kind of feel as if I had arrived already. And it's always hard to leave. Especially because my very good friend Pedro and all the friends I met through him over the years are living there. But also for that the city has changed considerably everytime we meet again and there is always something to discover: a stylish new cruise ship terminal here, a tiny art gallery there, business people, travelers, weirdos, you name it.

I naturally loose my orentation anywhere, but in Porto it's an extraordinary plessure. It happens to make me feel as if I was a little boy in a big old city, running up and down the countless stone stairs with a big grin on my face, this black dog that keeps following me everywhere, taking random turns into narrow alleys without knowing where they lead, getting lost between the smells of fresh laundry and warm pastry. Is there anything nicer than Portuguese pastry? Whatever I've tried so far, and may it just look like an all too simple piece of cake, it never is. It's either incredibly juicy or has some surprising super-tasty filling to it. A pastry shop window can be so very fascinating...

Also in Porto we had the first major repair coming up. The rear brakes had been an issue for while, since Ireland actually. But driving in Porto, probably one of the most hilly cities in the world with its 1st-gear-steep slopes, you might wanna attest some importance to those brakes. The tricky bit with these drum brakes is that when they're too loose there's too much space and they just fall apart. Inside a more or less fast spinning wheel. So when I heared that not unfamiliar sound of some parts randomly rotating back there, I felt it was time to pull over and do something about it. I'd ordered new brake shoes beforehand and carried them with me forever. But now there were no excuses - no rain or galeforce winds, an even dry surface next to the train tracks, and not much longer to go without doing something anyway.

The job took about two hours and everythig worked alright. It's such a good feeling getting some boxes ticked. But from my experience I know that with this van, if you fix one thing two more will come up soon. Just as if it was trying to make sure it gets its share of attention besides the dog and the surf and the books. Which is fair enough I guess for what would I do on this trip without my little casita viajera?

Galicia

I kept riding this wave closer and closer to the rocks. It then formed a wedge and left me hanging high up at this rocky wall. The bit I was holding on to already toppled. Below me an abyss, drained from all water. Solely rocks and boulders. I could not hold on to the wall for much longer. I gave in and let go. I fell. Surprisingly very slowly, landing smoothly on my feet. I woke up with my pulse racing. The morning sun shone through the plastic window, bathing the interior of the van in a mellow light and reminding me that it's all good. Chilly it was. Only 5 °C last night.

Galicia reminded me that it was still January. When we arrived a few nights ago, we entered this most remote part of the Spanish north shore passing through dark woodlands, ghost-like fog patches suddenly appearing in the beam of the headlights. For the last kilometres I just followed the signs to Cabo Ortegal in the very north of Galicia where we slept right next to the lighthouse. For some minutes I sat with my back against the sack of dog food just gazing at the rotating light. Thinking nothing, wanting nothing.

The next day we went discovering a handful of beaches in the Northwest. And I had to learn that bigger is not always better. Or in other words, that when there's some decent movement going on out at sea, it's not necessarily the best idea heading for a surf at a swell magnet. Trying to duckdive a wave that was unloading on the beach of Valdovino, the lip hit my calf with so much furiousity that it felt as someone proper smacked it with a baseball bat.

Our second night we spent again at a lighthouse, this time in the West at Cabo Prior. That particular night would hold an adventure of the kind I only know from these kids' story tapes. At about midnight I took Djinga for a late walk up the hill. Just in case, I had taken my torch with me. Soon, a mysterious stone entrance at the side of the path caught my interest and we followed the narrow corridor behind it, only seeing what the torch light would illuminate. Musty air around us, remnants of earlier visitiors here and there in what now seemed like an abondoned and derelict concrete settlement. Behind every corner there could have been somebody. I was so alert that the slightest noise would have made me jump out of my skin. I was relieved having Djinga with me. She'd surely sense any presence before I'd scare myself to death! We entered another building and turning around a corner, there were these long stairs leading into the deep, where they seemed to meet another corridor. I had enough and left it at that. Not at midnight.

The next morning we discovered bunkers and investigated every niche of what must have been a defence work in war times, not without taking loads of photos of course! What difference a bit of daylight makes. Anyway, there was not much keeping us there and we continued to San Xurxo, a beach facing north, promising to be perfect with these fresh southerly winds. It looked awesome. Poseidon was flexing his muscles and sent some sizey beasts into the bay, the spray of their blown off tops bickering down that it stung like needles in my face.

For the days after the wind was forecast to turn north so I tried to locate a spot facing south / south-west which at the same time would not be too much of a detour on our route to Portugal. La Lanzada seemed to be the pick. aAlthough I found only average waves on this long, sandy stretch, as we were almost about to leave we encountered another beach further south: Montalvo.

It wasn't mapped in any of my guides but seemed to be the spot in the area. Tubey, offshore and busy. It was here where I made friends with locals for the first time on this trip. First of all José aka. Spiderman who actually introduced me to everyone else, including Jorge the local surf photographer who was so stoked about the two old analogue cameras! A busy line-up can be amazing fun if all your friends are there and we had a really good time. After one day I felt like I had already lived there for a season or so. This is how we got stuck there for as long as the waves were good and just went off the radar for a while. José gave me a bottle of the wine he produces locally and invited me for coffee, Tonio who ownes the local surf bar "Kannion" was generous with pinchos and snacks and Jorge surprised me with a fresh coffee and croissant on the morning we left. Unbelievable.

Asturias

The day before yesterday I arrived at the little paradise of Rodiles, and at first I didn't feel like going in. Quite a lot of guys out there at the peak and considering their size, the waves were actually pretty steep and fast. Not for me on my backhand. I took some photos with different lenses, made some food and played with Djinga instead.

In the afternoon at high tide I got in and had the wave completely to myself, thus could get used to it. So, the next morning I gave it a go at low tide when it's best. Again, it was quite busy and one guy soon paddeled up to me (quite friendly actually) and told me that the outside would be somewhat of a regulars' table where strangers are not really welcome. So I'd better sit a bit more on the inside. At the end of the queue. Where it's never really your turn actually.

I understand that they don't want to loose their predominance at this epic spot to anyone. But by all means - ten or more locals and one visitor, does it matter to share every tenth or so wave with him or her? It surely does! Because everyone has a better time if we do! RESPECT THE TRAVELLERS (that have sometimes come thousands of miles to share good times) could be a bit of an update to the square and meanwhile widely accepted 'respect the locals' shibboleth. I got a few pearls anyway and the bit of pressure actually made me do alright on them. At least it felt like that.

The day's been so sunny that I had lunch barefoot with t-shirt, then continued my reading of "Sophie's World", repaired the tail of my board (again) and rang up my brother in law for his birthday. The eucalyptus trees spread their lovely scent in the warmth, and the coo-coo of the pidgeons and smiling families passing by my little camp made me quickly forget about the somewhat tense vibe in the water.

In the arvo I hit the road to Gijon since I read about some promising spot east of the city that works on all tides and holds a big swell. Bingo! Clean 3 m ramps rolling into the bay, and as the guy I met in the carpark put it: "If you go you'll be three out there". What a session. Soon we were only two, a guy about twice my age on a longboard and me. Sunset. Solid sets with no sections, my board bouncing at that speed. Lefts and rights, long turns, big smiles. Loads of waves later, arms tired I walked back up the hill to the van. The offshore wind felt unnaturally warm now and a quick glimps on the thermometer made it clear that the temperature had gone up to 19 °C!

T-shirt time in a starlit night, a big yellow pancake full moon rising, and a fancy red wine (1,25 Euro the bottle) candle-light dinner in the van, which I parked atop the bay, overlooking Gijon by night. Nice and levelled. And with a lighthouse in sight of course.